


Storm

by worldofmydevising



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Breakup, M/M, mycroft I want to hug you, reunion?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-24 19:17:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14960534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/worldofmydevising/pseuds/worldofmydevising
Summary: From a tumblr prompt:When I can't sleep at night-I stare at the empty side of my bed,and wonder about the thingsI would tell you,if you were laying next to me.A.S.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [egmon73](https://archiveofourown.org/users/egmon73/gifts).



> I veered in a different direction a little, but I think the spirit of the prompt remains intact. Hope you enjoy! (egmon73, I've been quietly hanging around tumblr for the better part of a year, and you seem like you're unfailingly kind to everyone in Mystrade. I don't know you, but thank you!)

_He’d loved storms._

Mycroft corrected himself. 

_Loves. Greg is somewhere out there loving this tornado-warning of a storm, even if he is not currently with me. Even if he left a lifetime ago, and the bed’s been cold since._

Mycroft diligently set about completing his bedtime ritual. Countries would rise and fall, people would come and go and it would shatter him, but if he managed to brush his teeth for ninety seconds with lavender-mint toothpaste and change into a silk dressing gown that was more comfortable than luxurious after two years—if he managed to keep it together long enough to read in bed for _precisely thirty minutes_ the day ahead would somehow seem doable. 

He stared into the mirror, toothbrush in hand. 

He wasn’t handsome by anyone’s standards—not the kind of man whose hand people held on the streets, protective and proud. Even in his youth he'd only been _decent enough_ , consigned to being bundled furtively into cabs and used to roughly satisfy a night’s lust. A clipped “thank you and good-bye,” at the end of it, and a phone screen he somehow never stopped expecting to light up.

Mycroft stepped away from the sink, and reached for his dressing-gown. It had been long enough to be physically impossible, but somehow it still smelled of Greg—friendly, musky _man._

_Decent enough…until Greg._

The little x at the end of every text. Greg’s warm face smiling up into his. Greg’s hands, tenderly stroking over his hair to soothe the night terrors away. A bedtime story every night, usually featuring Greg and Mycroft in the newest installment of—what had Greg called it?—Fighting Really Cool Bad Guys And Winning. Mycroft smiled at the recollection, and then he remembered that it was all in the past and a knife twisted in his heart.

He climbed into bed with a well-thumbed book—Maurice—and tried to read. The rain hammered against the windows, and the wind howled relentlessly. _Greg would have loved this. He’d have made a fort and dragged me in. I’d have feigned annoyance. Why didn’t I love you properly, when I had the chance?_

A year—twelve _beautiful, glorious_ months—and then Greg explained that loving Mycroft had taken all the spirit out of him, that he couldn’t do it any longer. It was too hard, he said. The lashing out, the unreciprocated kisses and “I love you”s. Feeling sometimes like he was the only one in the relationship who cared at all. 

Mycroft had wanted to tell him that he _did_ care; so much that it made him afraid, and he had pulled back. He’d _wanted_ to squeeze Greg’s hand, and kiss every inch of his body, and tell him how his heart soared each time he heard the magic words. But he’d been inexplicably paralyzed, and instead he’d pulled away, told Greg not to be ridiculous and that he had to leave for work. Once—Mycroft shuddered and pulled the covers tightly around himself—“I hate you.” And so the thing he’d feared most had come to pass. Of course it had, because he’d been a monster and Greg was good and kind and he hadn’t deserved any of it. 

His reading-timer went off, but he didn’t think he’d registered a single word of his novel. He turned the lamp off and lay back. Even after a year, he stayed resolutely on the left side of the bed. The right side was Greg’s, and it always would be. He wished Greg wasn’t just a spectre, now. 

“Greg,” he started aloud. “I’m sorry you felt unloved. I’m sorry I didn’t treasure you the way you deserved. I’m sorry… _I’m sorry.”_

On the bedside table, his phone screen lit up. 

 

Mycroft? Can we talk? x

                                              -Greg


	2. Chapter 2

 

Mycroft stared at his phone, stunned. Here was the text he’d waited for—here was the second chance he’d dreamed of. And yet he was _abjectly terrified._ Trembling, he picked the phone up. He typed everything he wanted to say. He typed and typed, and before he realized it the better part of an hour had passed. 

Then he switched off his phone, and the message was lost. 

He tried to go to sleep. Nothing good happens after two in the morning, he told himself. Best to respond to-morrow; Greg had likely gone to bed. 

Only sleep refused to come. How could it? He _maybe_ had a chance with the only man he’d ever loved, and the only man who’d ever loved him. Everything Mycroft had ever been taught told him to play it safe, to respond politely and distantly or perhaps not at all. Love was dangerous—Mycroft had learned that bitter lesson as a teenager, and once more in his thirties with Greg. He didn’t need to learn it again. 

Yet part of him yearned to, if it meant that he’d be in Greg’s arms for even a second. 

He pressed the power button on his phone. It seemed an eternity before it finally switched on. And there was the message, a collection of black pixels which somehow seemed to illuminate the world. 

_Like Greg._

Mycroft dialed Greg’s number from memory. The sequence felt familiar to his fingers, even now.  His hands shook as they raised the phone to his ear, and he prayed he wouldn’t drop it. 

“Mycroft?” Greg’s voice was tentative, but it radiated warmth nonetheless.

“Greg…” Mycroft’s voice broke. 

“Love, don’t cry… ’S okay. I’m here. Well, I’m not, but I can be if you need me. If you want me.” Greg’s reassuring tones came soft and strong down the line. 

Mycroft wanted to tell him that he needed nobody, and that Greg had been remiss in texting. But Greg’s words echoed in Mycroft’s mind, memories from years past. _Myc, I can’t promise to read your mind. But I promise to listen when you ask. Please try._

Mycroft took a shuddering breath. “W-would you?”

He could _hear_ Greg’s smile. “Be there in five, love.” 

Mycroft’s heart pounded incessantly as he waited by the door, and he anxiously wiped sweat from his brow. He was a mess.Then the doorbell rang, and he didn’t bother to check the security monitors before nearly flinging it open. 

There Greg stood, tall and handsome and _his._ He launched himself into Greg’s open arms, and he knew he looked ridiculous but he didn’t care. Mycroft wept bitterly, and the men sank to the floor on Mycroft’s porch, rain pouring all around them. Greg’s tears fell into his hair. Slowly at first, and then in a torrent. They held onto each other for dear life.

“Greg… _so sorry…_ never again. Forgive me-“ 

“No, darling. Forgive _me,_ for losing faith…”

When there were no tears left to cry, when Mycroft finally fell exhausted onto Greg’s shoulder, Greg gently guided him into the house. 

It was Mycroft who broke the silence. “Stay, dearest—stay, and I promise you’ll have all of my heart. You already do.” 

Greg, softly, ”Always.” His lips met Mycroft’s in a tender kiss, and both men knew that they were finally _home._


End file.
